Another Chewing of the Cud on the Death of Cuchulain

Cuchulain, many have you slain
Upon the Warfield, with the fat
Of blood upon your weapon.
Waxy is your steel---so like Christ's
When He treads the winepress---
And the bloody bands and brains
Are blown out by your blows.
Finally, one hapless warrior wounds you
And guts hanging from your stomach
You go through, and murder many;
And then you die, creating a blood feud
Which your pal takes an oath to avenge.
Such is war, and its eventual end.